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It's late. Very late. The time that, well, Elsa hopes most men are slacking and asleep. She stole from her father's house after the few left there were dead to the world with a simple note. A note that said she'd seen the light and a chance for a better life, and it wasn't holding on with bloodied fingernails to this country. Of course, if she should change her mind, she also has plenty of time before they wake. She has a single bag across her shoulder and is dressed in travelling garb for a woman. A simple gray skirt that falls to just about her ankles and a tucked in button down shirt. It's enough to show off her sharp probably a touch indecently, but she knows she's lovely… they always called her lovely back in town, and she enjoyed showing it off. Now, she stands but feet from the boarder, staring off over the lost land… a sick, torn look to her blue eyes…She smokes a cigarette, one of her last ones left. It's the best way to think, smoking a cigarette that is.

One man. Just one man. "He must be mad," Bastian whispers to himself, for the fifth time scanning the trees around that red firefly. "Only an idiot would come out here alone." The irony isn't lost on this one man, alone, calling another lone soul suicidal. Fingers and toes push and pull, shoving Bastian into the very forest from which that cigarette glow comes from. The man shifts to his feet with a slight stiffness; he blames the nights of sleeping in trenches, instead of the approaching third decade. He quietly steals through the forest, zig-zagging around to that smoking figure's rear. It's harder in practice, since the branches and twigs hide that smouldering cherry much of the time, and the darkness reduces all colour and contrast to a uniform greyscale world of vague depths.

Elsa isn't trained as a fighter. Hell, she's only barely trained as a nurse, having started her make shift course when the war started. She was the sort of woman who was to find a husband and quietly play the politics behind the scenes, not to trounce through mud and blood during war. And yet, here she was. Oblivious to the man's motion through the trees, she just breathes in deeply of her cigarette and turns her eyes upwards to the moon. The motion makes her longer blonde hair catch glint of the night time sky… Is it one lone man? Or… a lone specimin of the fairer gender?

There is a universal language, requiring only the briefest of exposure to grant fluency. Bastian prepares a sentence in it as he slowly unfolds his Schmeisser's stock. Mentally unprepared to meet a woman out here, he can only wonder at this strange Polish uniform. With a shrug, he slips out from behind the last tree between them and noisily chambers a round - a warning in that universal language. "I don't speak Polish," he says slowly, his voice soft and quiet but loud enough in the still night air. "But I think we both know that one of us isn't going back to their barracks."

Elsa clears her throat slightly and she shifts her body in his direction. She would not run from this. She made this decision already. Surprisingly, she faces him with little fear or anger. There is a bold openness to her stance and a strenght to her jaw which isn't much seen among women… but then, women aren't much seen among war. She returns to him in quiet voiced, firm German, her border land accent clear. "It is alright… I speak German. And I have no barricks to which I should return."

He may as well have been punched, the way the German stumbles back a step. It isn't instant, but happens when the sound of her voice makes the woman's gender clear. "Put your hands on your head." The words come out flat, an ingrained reaction. Bastian approaches her, but with each step closer his weapon drifts shakily away from her even more… and not just because of the loose one-handed grip on it. The man reaches out with his left, maybe to pat her down, but the hand just hangs there in the air as his deep green eyes fall into her own. "… dreadfully sorry about this," he whispers from a suddenly dry throat.

Elsa carefully drops her pack to the side and allows her cigarette to linger between the corner of her lips. She's not dropping that, she has too few left. She allows her slender hands to raise, lacing her fingertips upon her hair as she is instructed, her motions still entirely too open and comfortable. She is clearly not here for a fight. A small smile betrays itself upon her lips at his discomfort and she cannot help but give the softest of laughs. "There is… nothing to be sorry about…I suppose I am the one interrupting your patrol. I'll admit I didn't expect anyone this far out."

"Nobody e…" Bastian has to swallow, but the act itself regains him some composure. The soldier rolls his shoulders back, standing straighter. He tries to fix her with a proud stare of authority, but all too soon he gets lost in pointless riddle of trying to decide what colour her eyes are. Nevertheless, he tries again. "Nobody expects the… stormtruppen…" Before he's finished Bastian is shaking his head, a smile cracking his soft face. There's a click from his weapon as he idly engages the safety, then gestures out to the field. "Trite, I know; shall we go for a walk?" he asks, finally giving in to the surreal experience.

Elsa did -not- expect that, her blonde brow lofting gently and a slow, slightly wider smile completely possessing her lips. She carefully reaches her hands down again, taking her cigarette from her mouth and ashing it to the side. "…A walk? Not… entirely what I expected, but that sounds… lovely. Don't suppose you have any more of these? I'm almost out.." Elsa murmurs quietly, giving a mournful look to the nearing butt of cigarette in her fingertips. One, maybe two puffs left on the thing. She carefully shoulders her pack again, it doesn't really look terribly heavy and she handles it fine as she allows her shoes to carefully carry her to his side. She'll wait for him to lead the way.

A quick glance into the forest to make sure she's not being followed, and then Bastian reaches out to take her elbow. It /could/ be considered a military escort, or it could just be a gentlemanly hand to keep her from stumbling. "Sure, but not here," he answers. He's constantly looking around, now, as he escorts her across the field to an odd dark lump. It might be mistaken for a stack of haybales abandoned, until they get close and the barrel and shape of the armoured car can be made out. Bastian points to a dugout in the ground and the pack within it. "Take a seat." It's not quite an order as he looks on at her with puzzlement.

Elsa looks down at that arm upon her elbow and it just makes her grin in a hint of amusement. Yes, indeed, very strong. She doesn't fight him, though she does shift her arm just a bit, to loop through his almost if he permits her. In silence, she walks, her blue eyes turning serious for a few heartbeats as she gazes across her shoulder, just being certain NO ONE is following them. She then looks back ahead, trying to make out where they are going… it's not until they are very close that she realizes. "…Very nice." She comments quietly, as if her date had come to pick her up in a new roadster. She then slips inside, nodding to the pack which she throws in the back…"Medical supplies. Fresh bandages… some medicines… Not much, but every little bit helps." She then moves for his pack, searching for the cigarettes. Once she finds them, she pulls out two. She puts both between her lips and strikes up a match from her pocket. Breathing in deep, she lights them both before handing him one which now tastes of her lips.

The man's certainly not opposed to the linked elbows, even flashing her a brief smile when she does so. If it's a nervous smile, well, it's more the neverousness of 'any second now, Lancers are going to ride out of those woods' than from naivete. The woman's actions at the trench just baffle him; the whole time he spends easing into the trench, his head is tilted at her back side (and backside, he'll admit). At length, sitting down and accepting the smoke he asks, "Who /are/ you?"

Elsa sinks down a bit deeper, sitting low and in the shadow so if any of his men would happen upon them she could very possibly be over looked. It hikes her skirt up to show off her bare calves just a bit, but she doesn't much seem to care. She breathes deeply of her cigarette, now seeming to relax far more herself as she alternates blue eyed looks between his handsome features and the late night sky…"I'm Elsa… Elsa Gorski. I live in the village… about two miles in that direction. You'll overtake us soon, I'm sure. Within the week. I am… was… a nurse… "

He's tempted to tip his hat, but not ending up with an air-cooled brain is slightly higher on his list of priorities than propriety is. In fact, the way he stares at the woman's legs ranks knocks propriety down a few more steps. He does retain a few shreds of dignity, managing to tear his eyes away - not that her face is any less enticing. "Bastian Hertz, Miss Gorski. A pleasure." The man reaches out with a bandaged right hand with the fluidity of second nature, smiling pleasantly. "Do you understand what you're doing out here?" The phrasing is so odd; maybe he's just exhausted?

Elsa stares flatly at him…"Well, you know.. I thought I was out here to pick some daisys… or maybe find sea shells, but it's just not the time of year and the ocean is miles away." She's clearly being sarcastic, heavy enough it comes through even with her accent. She takes another drag of the smoke and just allows her smile to turn to a smirk, "Of course I know what I'm doing out here. I'm defecting, you idiot…" She gives a little laugh, trying not to feel too guilty or mad about the whole thing, but it does prickle upon her conscience just a bit. "…You have already won. It's just a matter of time. I'd… rather be on the winning side, frankly."

"You're wandering through the camp of SS 'Ubermenschen,'" the word is practically spat out, "who're likely to put a bullet in your head or rape you," he says casually, looking over the edge of the trench. Out the corner of his mouth he adds, "And they're not mutually exclusive outcomes, I might add, in whatever order you care to imagine." Slumping back into the ditch, he lets out a smokey breath. "I'll speak to my officer - you're in luck, we're real soldiers." The cigarette is wiggled at her, but his face doesn't carry much mirth. More… concern, really.

Elsa is thrown just a touch by that. Yes, she knew war was bad, but much like the Germans the women were being kept as far off the front as possible. She knew it was harsh, but she hadn't much thought about them just killing her. Wouldn't they want a nurse? She says nothing for several long heartbeats, staring out over the slowly drifting smoke of her cigarette. "…well… alright. I got lucky then, to meet a gentleman. Thank you…." She admits, none of that flirtatious mirth in her voice any more. Just a quiet, soulful mention of gratitude. She breathes tobacco again, brows furrowing in thought, "Well… I'm not sure what you need. If you need more supplies… I can go back, see what more I can steal. What I can hear. Bring them back to you… your officer. Prove my worth?"

Bastian gazes at the woman for a long moment… then begins to unbutton his jacket. "I'm going to have to think about that," he sighs, shrugging out of the jacket, unbuttoning the cuffs of his right sleeve. "Let's start out with a gesture of trust. You said you're a nurse, huh?" The way he smiles, between those two big ears, it could be considered disarming as he holds out his wounded arm.

Elsa lofts a blonde brow as he unbuttons his jacket, a warm, if just slightly flirtatious smile catching her lips. "Mm…. So that's how they prove trust these days?" She dares to say, perhaps attempting to even get a blush out of him, but then her blue eyes fall upon his injured arm and she makes a small sound of understanding, "Ah…" She sits up then, slipping the cigarette to rest at the corner of her lips as she pulls open the bag she carried… Indeed, it is medical supplies. She digs for the cleaning alcohol. "What happened?"

Her little jibe gets a gulp out of him, at least, but the shadow his helmet casts makes a blush hard to make out. "Took a rifle round up the arm. Missed bone and the major nerves, the doctor said, but…" Bastian shrugs and kneels down before the woman. His eyes track over her body briefly, then rest on her face. "We're a little too far forward for proper care." The man almost sound apologetic.

Elsa might have been flirtatious previously, but now that she has turned her eyes to her work she actually is surprisingly serious. She can't entirely hide the concern on her face as he bares the wound to her. A soft sound of disapproval escapes her throat and she reaches down for the alcohol, dousing a cloth in it. Everwhile, she smokes her cigarette from the corner of her lips. She's good at multitasking…"Damned stubborn man. Out on patrol when you should be resting with something like this. Do you want it to get worse?" She scolds quietly, bringing the alcoholic cloth over the wound and carefully patting it clean. She does her best to be gentle, but she needs to get in deep to make certain it's entirely clean.

Bastian's eyes roll back as the alcohol wipe comes over his injury. He doesn't even pretend there's no pain, though the man retains the dignity of snarling through gritted teeth rather than screeching like a little wee girl. "I'm fine," he manages to hiss somewhere in there. The cherry on his cigarette throbs with his quickened breathing, the pace of that strobe indicating when he's relaxing from the sanitizing. "My stupid little brother's with the SS here. If I went back to Regiment, that /idiot/…" Bastian's mouth snaps shut suddenly, and he tilts his head at the woman.

Elsa is entirely focused upon the wound in front of her, one hand beneath his palm, supporting his grasp and the other finishing the last few swabs of cleaning out the wound. She murmurs a quiet curse in Polish as she attempts to hold his arm up enough that she can see the wound in moonlight. "I'd much rather look at this in some decent lighting, but I think I've gotten it mostly clean. The doctor didn't suggest stitching?" She inquires, but then she realizes his words have trailed up and she flickers her blue gaze upwards, meeting his handsome expression. "…What is it? You've gone quiet."

By this point, Bastian's aware of squeezing her hand. While the grip does slacken, he doesn't quite let go. "You're very gentle," comes out in a breath, then managing to not sound TOO sullen when he adds, "despite introducing me to an entirely new kind of pain." The redhead takes a look at the wound himself, almost reaching out to touch it. "There… there were staples, at some point. Heh, probably somewhere in here now." The soldier pats the trench wall, grinning with a gallows humour. "Seeing as I dug it myself."

Elsa doesn't pull her hand away, even if there is no reason she needs to support his palm. Goodness, he was handsome. And intelligent, despite doing some dumb male things. You can't really expect TOO much from the other gender. She allows him to hold on, her smiles just a touch rueful, but still warm. "…You dug a trench with your hand half blown apart? Did they blow sense out of your skull too, Herr Hertz?" She scolds him, even if the scolding makes her grin even more. "Well, I do not have staples, just thread. But I will thread your -fingers- together if you do not promise me to let the other men dig while you are injured?? It will never head this way!" She shakes her head, definitely, if oddly, concerned for him. Wasn't she supposed to be on the other side?

"But… Heinrch…" the silly man offers feeble, confused resistance. He even gestures vaguely east. His younger brother doesn't stay on Bastian's mind for long, though, not with that dazzling smile and those waves of cornsilk hair. The helmet comes off, then, seemingly for no better reason than to rub a hand through his hair. "I understand, Miss Gorski." The German finally submits, every argument coming to mind already defeated.

Elsa watches the man's protests faulter upon his lips and she just grins, amusement crossing her pale features. "That's what I thought." She turns her hand around for just a heartbeat, giving his palm a squeeze before she brings it down to rest against her knee, giving her a flatter work surface while she reaches back for the sterile thread and needle pack. She pauses a moment, ensuring her fingertips are sterilized with alcohol, before she opens the pack to draw the stitching equipment out. "And what is this about Heinrich? He must be your brother. I think he would understand you allowing yourself to recover… to fight better another day."

Helmet doffed, it's pretty clear that he's not so used to the fairer sex as most men would claim to be: Those cheeks respond instantly to the squeeze, and especially to having his hand on the woman's knee. In olden days a glimpse of stocking, and such. The question about Heinrich is a welcome distraction. "I couldn't forgive myself if the little moron got into trouble just because I had a…" He looks down, then immediately away. "Rather dramatic-looking flesh wound," he whispers from a suddenly dry throat.

Elsa tilts her head slight as he looks down and then corrects his statement to being about his hand. She chuckles low in her throat, "Mmm… yes, well, I do not think taking 10 minutes to stitch up this wound will do your brother much harm. It is a quiet night… it is why I left tonight. The fighting has… died down. For now." She turns those sharp blues across her shoulder, looking out over the field, still a touch worried and tired to her very heart over all that has happened. She shakes off the brief distance and goes back to his hand. A moment to ensure the needle is threaded and she dips in. She's not vicious, but she's not coddling him either.

"It'll be worth the - " Bastian's words are cut off by the initial pinprick through alcohol-tendered flesh. He doesn't whimper, though he does wince just once. "The Poles have always been a fractuous lot. Even worse, the demon of International Communism lusts after her heart." His baritenor wavers less and less with every pinprick, every skincrawling tug of needle through flesh. The monologue seems to help focus his thoughts on something else. "We will bring order, good governance, and prosperity to this land. It should be shades better even for the most base of Poles than Soviet rule. For you, mein fraulein…" Bastian smiles at her, allowing himself to gaze into the lady's face and lose himself in her features. "… far, far better, I can tell."

Damn the man, distracting her from her work with handsome looks like that. And red hair…for some it might not be ideal, but to her, well, it just makes her smile. It gives him a look of boyishness that she didn't quite expect to be hidden under that helmet. She gazes up a moment, her hands falling still, blue eyes indeed lost in his own just a few heartbeats before she breathes in quickly and looks down…"Sorry…I… sorry." She admits, to that brief moment of distraction, and then begins the careful stitches. This time, despite her determination to make men's skin thicker with pain, she cannot help but be a bit more gentle. "My family is German, originally… though I was born in Poland. I… do think they will understand my choice. It… will be a better life."

Favouring her with a smile, Bastian doesn't even mention the woman's change in demeanour. He waits for her to go through his skin, then gives a light shake of her knee. "I'm sure they will," comes his quiet encouragement. "Especially once they find themselves on the German side." Those slate blue eyes study her, no longer squinting shut when she weaves through his skin.

Elsa moves quickly now, her fingertips trained. She might not have been a nurse for terribly long, but she was clearly sharply intelligent and picked up the motions rather well. She is careful, trying to bring the skin together in a way that it will not scar horribly. "…It's no matter now. I'm not looking back. They can make their decision…" She pauses though, her eyes flickering to the bag…"Unless…. you need me to look back. For… supplies. Information."

"The Wehrmacht is well-supplied. So well in fact that I feel a little guilty here." A wan smile, a nod of the head towards Polish-held territory. "Civilians are going to need this far more than I." Bastian's grip on her knee becomes less something of physical support, more a cupping gesture as his fingers come together. "You should go back." Withdrawing his cigarette, Bastian takes a deep breath of clean air as though steeling his nerves. "Take this back wherever you got it, and pick up whatever personal effects you might need. Keep your eyes open for soldiers, certainly, but we'll be far beyond here soon." Those eyes circle her own, trying to catch the woman's gaze. "I'll get you good work, and protection. What field hospital would turn down a good German wife?" There's a light mischief in that smile, but not an ounce of fear. His decision, apparently, has been made.

Elsa just about finishes up, listening to his words and his reassurances of what she should take back. It was a silent shock, truthfully, his concern for the polish Civilians. It strengthens her heart's resolve all the more than this was the right decision and, despite Polish propaganda, the German way will be a good one. How could it not be with men like this? She secures the last stitch, nodding quietly, "…Alright… I will go back… just for tomorrow. Return this… perhaps say…" And then she falls quiet, his last statement just settling into her brain. Her eyes sharply jerk in his direction, "Wife??" She's too shocked to show any emotion good or bad…not yet at least.

His hand squeezes Elsa's knee, rubbing in a little circle. "My family is respected - hell, my brother's an SS man in good standing." Bastian's voice remains calm, gentle, his tones conversational without being excited. "You, on the other hand, will be a known defector. A woman with questionable loyalties and a job with no guarantees. Germans will get first take in the new territories, after all." It's almost as though he's discussing an article in the newspaper, including the little gesture with his cigarette. "Take my name, and suddenly you're a German citizen, not just ethnic Volk." Bastian smiles at the lovely Pole, sucking on his cigarette. "You may even find it to be less a matter of pure convenience as time passes, yeah?"

Elsa has forgotten completely to finish bandaging his hand as, well, he is proposing marriage to her right in the middle of this field. In the middle of the night, sitting in a car, he bleeding and no doubt exhausted and she having just made the run for her life. She's heard of quick war weddings, but this was ridiculous. Still, it had potential…. and he was handsome. She watches his face, open shock still upon her own pale features. Finally, she tosses out the last of her cigarette, she clears throat… and still has no words. She looks from his face, out to the darkness, and back to his face again. "You…hardly know me. I hardly know you??…What would your brother say? How would your wife suddenly… be here?" But she has not said no, surprisingly. She works on keeping the Polish from her accent now, almost trying to pick up his German. They will have to work on this.

"The needle, Elsa," Bastian gently prods. "My brother will say I should have married Gretchen or some other mindless, twittering strumpet from one of his beerhalls." The scout flicks the last of his ash out the open door. "It isn't unheard of for a man to marry a local girl - one of Heinrich's officers got married to a Czech when we took the Sudetenland." He shrugs, careful not to move his arm till she's done. "And, well… we'll /get/ to know each other." A gloved finger is raised, and he has the presence of character to avert his eyes. "I haven't mentioned children, mind you - let's not get too far ahead of ourselves."

The relative silence of the evening is broken by a harsh shout in german, "Achtung!" comes a voice, followed by the distinctive click-clack of several weapons chambering rounds of ammunition. Unbeknownst to the handsome couple, a German foot patrol has them in their sights, Feldwebel Meier has his Mp40 leveled at the car, awaiting a response from its occupants.

Oh! The needle! Elsa, having already tied off the thread, quickly disposes of the needle into the small package where she got it. She reaches quickly for some bandages, just beginning to place it over his hand as he speaks. She nods, slowly, her lips on the edge of parting to speak… and then there is the sound outside. She gives a distinctly feminine little gasp, instinctively falling back to her low sunken position in the car. It's how she was sitting before she had begun to tend to his wounds. "Oh dear God…" She murmurs beneath her breath, staring up to Bastian with wide and, for the first time tonight, slightly frightened eyes.

Bastian Hertz grins, barely holding back a laugh. Yes, some of it's just nervous energy, but much of his mirth comes from the amusing turn of events. "Well, not to pressure you, but here comes the padre, you might say." The man leans back, slowly reaching his hands up to grab the roof of the car and ease himself out. The whole time, he's grinning like a madman at Elsa - either his new bride or the woman who sent him to prison. "Feldwebel; Gefreiter Hertz reports as ordered," he barks, about-facing to regard the sergeant at a position of attention.

The silent pause is broken somewhat as several shapes rise up out of the grass and brush, "What are you doing out here?" the stern voice inquires. Soft steps on the ground herald the advance of the soldiers, headed by their Senior Sergeant. Flash-lights blink on, sweeping over the car and its occupants, easily illuminating the female passenger, "And who is that?"

Somehow, Elsa has a feeling this isn't really her place to speak up right now. Especially since she cannot be assured of her own voice completely able to hide the Polish accent in her German. At least she's fluent, thank God for small miracles. She watches Bastian as he stands, her slender frame remaining slumped down in the seat, doing her best to hide but also almost a hint faint from this all. Damnit, she was stronger than this. She draws in a deep breath and nods quickly to Bastian, a silent acceptance of his offer which, hopefully, goes unseen by the approaching soldier. She whispers from her position, "You owe me a whole -pack- of cigarettes for this…" And it's the last thing she says before they are fully approached. It's Bastian's show now. She certainly looks a civilian, in a simple gray skirt and a button down, close fitting shirt. Youngish, but definitely a woman. Her blonde hair looks just a -touch- mussed.

"I am on night watch of the 231, Feldwebel. The injury, and all, you remember," Bastian adds, lifting his bare right arm - the sleeve's rolled up. "As to who is in the car, sir, I had hoped to ask your blessing tomorrow…" The scout straightens, becoming ramrod stiff. "Feldwebel Meier, I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Elsa Hertz."

Erwin has seen this sort of thing before. Maybe not in wartime, but plenty in garrison, some young soldier decides to go off and marry one of the local girls who accepted his invitation to a dance, youngsters, sheesh!

The Feldwebel steps forward, holding his own torch up to the pair, his face hidden behind the bright light, "Papers…" he orders, extending a calloused hand towards the fraulein.

Elsa frowns, torn about the papers… she reaches into the small bag she had been carrying, digging for her documents, but slowly. She's waiting for any hint from Bastian that she shouldn't show them. She carefully hands the passport in the officer's direction, her fingertips just slightly on a shiver. The papers idenitfy her as a Polish national, Elsa Gorski, but at least she has a good German cut to her face. She speaks quiet and clearly. "…I… want to join you all. I am a nurse… I know how to treat people. I brought some supplies…" And apparently met a man. It's been a busy night.

Erwin seems to have a cooler head than Bastian, at least the Feldwebel can smell a rat, or ratress for that matter. "Good, you can peal potatoes and clean bandages, but you won't be touching any wounded." he snorts, raising a hand and barking into the darkness. "Take her to the village, put her under guard, have the Unteroffizier in charge put her on menial tasks until the Feldgendarmerie arrive, they will deal with her properly."

"I didn't say it would be an easy /start/," Bastian offers apologetically to the woman. He holds out his hand for her to get out of the vehicle, but is careful not to reach in: Nothing that would look like he could be passing her a weapon, or anything. "I imagine, Feldwebel, you'll want more than a few words with me."

Elsa attempts at a slight smile in Bastian's direction. Well, it had been worth a try. She slips her palm into his and carefully removes herself from the vehicle, slipping down into standing firm upon the ground with the two men. There is little more she can do now to fight. She's given her word and opened her fate very much to the whim of others. Still, her hand gives Bastian's palm a hopeful little squeeze as she waits to be escorted away. She'll keep his hand in her's until the last moment possible, a simple sign that she didn't hate him for turning her over. She knew it would happen one way or another.

Erwin snorts a bit, it seems the senior Sergeant is all business. "Yes, and at the top of my list is why you let a polack in a military vehicle." he mutters, watching as the girl is led away, "I do not want to see you cavorting with the locals, High Command does not want to see our men corrupted by partisans, you will keep away from her at all times." he says, scolding the Lance Corporal, "Dismissed."

Those last words catch Elsa's ears, a look of panic crossing her face as she gazes back towards Bastian… but is just drug along all the faster. No… surely they wouldn't…. For the first time since running, well, she is -truly- scared.